


A Sparrow Flies

by ahh_fuck



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Flustered Jaskier, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Jaskier in boxers, M/M, Renaissance Faires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahh_fuck/pseuds/ahh_fuck
Summary: This is an answer to an ask on Tumblr: "ok but i just saw this AU "My incredibly stupid cat just jumped out of my apartment window after a bird and you caught her in your arms like a baby and looked up, stared me dead in the eye and said "I think you dropped something" and this is geraskier y/y? :D?"But then I actually had some plot bunnies about immortal Geralt in the modern age meeting Jaskier all over again. I may continue this if there is enough interest. (Also, no beta! Will come back and post a cleaned up version soon though!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 124





	A Sparrow Flies

Jaskier threw his leg up on the couch, strumming his lute and singing his heart out. He had just gotten his first shitty apartment for the summer between college semesters, and he was massively behind on practicing for the Faire. August was only a month and a half a way, and he had at least twenty more songs to memorize into his repertoire. It was his first summer as an adult, and he’d finally been allowed to act as one of the wandering bards. 

_ If all of the girls were bells in a tower _

_ And I was a clapper, I'd bang one each hour _

_ Go roll your leg over, roll your leg over _

_ Roll your leg over the man in the moon. _

_ If all of the girls were fish in the ocean _

_ And I was a wave (or whale) I would teach them the motion. _

_ Go roll your leg over, roll your leg over _

_ Roll your leg over the man in the moon. _

The young bard-to-be resumed striding around the room, practicing his struts and flourishes. Nothing less than perfection would do. If he didn’t impress the first week, he would be relegated back to the fairy chorus again, and the fucking leggings  _ itched _ in the August heat. 

_ If all of the girls were little white rabbits _

_ And I was a hare, I would teach them bad habits. _

_ Go roll your leg over, roll your leg over _

_ Roll your leg over the man in the moon. _

_ If all them young ladies was up for improvement. _

_ I'd give them some help with a ball-bearing movement. _

_ Go roll your leg over, roll your leg over _

_ Roll your leg over the man in the moon. _

As he paced back and forth, he tossed his head to throw a sweat-sticky curl of hair off of his forehead. The merciless summer heat had started early this year, and by June it was in full swing. The windows of his little apartment were wide open, and a standing fan was turning back and forth, stirring lazy eddies in the arid air. Nearby, his elderly cat grey cat, Pipkin, lazed in the cool shadow of the table. 

_ If all them young ladies was little white kittens _

_ And I was the tom cat, I'd give them new fittin's  _

_ Go roll your leg over, roll your leg over- _

As he spun with particular exuberance, he landed wrong and staggered onto the cat’s tail. Flailing backwards, Jaskier flew one way and the cat flew another. He hit the floor near the ratty couch with a crash, all the breath rushing out of his lungs. Nearby he heard a ‘bang!’ and then a howl of fury and fear as the ancient screen gave way under her considerable weight. Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat.

“ _ Pipkin! _ ” He screamed, scrambling over to the window and looking frantically downward. As he scanned the sidewalk for his cat, he saw a man with white hair and golden eyes staring up at him. His hammering heart did a complicated skip as the man locked eyes with him and smirked, gesturing with something in his arms. 

“I think you dropped something,” he called up, his voice a gravelly baritone. In his arms was Pipkin, who had such a look of shock on her face that it was almost comical. 

Despite his terror, Jaskier gave a slightly hysterical titter. Oh shit, it was his drop-dead gorgeous neighbor. “I can’t believe you caught her. Oh Melitele, thank you!” No such goddess existed anymore, but in his upset he had forgotten to drop out of character and used the ancient name. 

Below him, his neighbor’s eyebrows went up. “It’s fine,” he said, but he sounded a little thrown. The cat, recovering from her shock, began to struggle in his arms. She gave a surprisingly deep snarl for such a tiny animal. Lashing out, she spat at her rescuer and tried to claw him. Dodging easily, he fixed his eyes on the little animal and gestured in the air above her. “Hush,” he said, though Jaskier could barely hear him. With a slow blink, the little cat settled down in his arms. 

Jaskier gaped at this exchange from above. When the stranger’s compelling golden eyes returned to him, it sparked him suddenly back into motion. “Sweet goddess are you ok?” Leaning out of the window, he peered down at Pipkin. “Pipkin, you be good! What is wrong with you?! I’ll be right down.”

The big man holding his cat smiled a slow smile, shaking his head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d better bring her up to you. She’s not going to be very happy when I let her go.” 

Jaskier blinked at him, puffed, and then nodded. He wasn’t expecting guests and his apartment was a mess, but he imagined his neighbor was right. It was odd to see her so quiet, though. Feeling a stir of unease, he called, “Okay! I’m in 503!”

“I know,” the white-haired man replied with a crooked grin. He walked around the side of the building to the entryway and vanished out of sight. 

Struck by a sudden panic, Jaskier slammed the window closed and flew away from it. He began frantically cleaning his apartment. Pizza boxes in the trash, empty soda cans in the recycling,  _ oh sweet goddess his socks were everywhere. _ “Why am I like this?!” He groaned, running a pile of dirty laundry across the apartment and flinging it into his bedroom.

He’d watched his blisteringly hot neighbor move in less than a month ago to the apartment next door, and since then had become a little obsessed. Not only was he gorgeous, he had some weird habits. He kept odd hours. Sometimes he’d leave around twilight one evening and not show up until noon next day, limping into his apartment with a long, dark jacket on, even in the heat of summer. Others, he’d be out at dawn with a large pack of some sort on his back. Then he’d come back in the middle of the day, looking like ten miles of bad road. Sometimes Jaskier could swear there was blood on the carpet, but every time he’d go back to look later, it had vanished- scrubbed away, or never there? 

He never seemed to mind the noise Jaskier made, either. While other philistines railed at his 3 AM renditions of “Roll Your Leg Over,” banging on the floor and wall of his apartment. On one memorable occasion, they had even sent an exasperated police officer to bang on his door. Never the white-haired stranger, though, no matter how loud he was being. 

Just then, knocking interrupted his frantic cleaning. Dropping the lute onto the couch and swearing, Jaskier ran to answer the door. It was only after he had flung the door wide and the white-haired man had stepped inside that he realized he was still only in his boxers. Mortified, he froze to the floor as his neighbor slipped around him and punted the door shut with his foot. He hadn’t even cleared away all of the empty soda bottles, and he’d  _ forgotten his pants. _

The big man glanced at him as he entered and smirked. Cradled in his arms, no doubt getting his black jacket all furry, was Pipkin. She had a vague, dazed expression on her face, but her tail swished calmly as he turned to close the door. When he released her on the floor however, some sort of spell seemed to break. She blinked, spun around yowling, and whacked the man’s thick calf-high leather boot three times in quick succession. Then she sprinted away into the recesses of Jaskier’s apartment, vanishing in a trice. 

“Pipkin!” Jaskier gasped, the shock of seeing his usually friendly cat smack the man jarring him into motion. “I am,  _ so _ sorry,” he quavered, grabbing a yellow, furry jacket off of the coat hook near the door and wrapping it self-consciously around his waist. “She’s normally very sweet, I promise. Are you all right?!” He looked down at the unharmed boot and back up into shocking golden eyes, bright and intelligent, glittering with amusement. 

“I’m fine,” the stranger drawled, removing silver-studded black leather gloves and putting them into his jacket pocket. Closer up, it was possible to see that he carried something bulky under the black duster, strapped to his back. What it was, however, was unclear. 

“That’s… that’s good, I’m glad to hear it,” Jaskier bubbled awkwardly, at a loss. He couldn’t just bolt for his trousers without introducing himself first, but he didn’t want to introduce himself without trousers. Dithering, he clutched the jacket to his waist and stared with wide blue eyes at the black-clad vision in front of him. Tall, white hair, long black jacket, some sort of… was that biker’s gear? The pants appeared to be leather with thick plates sewn into them, perhaps to protect from road rash. He also had some sort of sturdy leather vest or something peeking through the opening of his jacket. A tingle raced across the back of Jaskier’s arms. Whatever he was, this was no normal neighbor. 

“Want to go grab some pants?” A dry voice cut through his dithering. “I’ll wait.” Bright eyes tracked across the fluffy yellow jacket, the smirk widening slightly. 

“Oh thank you,” Jaskier gasped, fleeing before he even had a chance to think. “I’ll be right back!” he called over his shoulder, vanishing into his bedroom. He blindly grabbed for the first pair of pants he could find in his drawer and staggered into them. They were a pair of high-waisted blue trousers that tied at the back- part of one of his Faire outfits. 

Then he peeked under the bed for Pipkin, who he found in the closet. She was hiding in an empty shoe box, and emitted a peevish growl when he gently fished her out, cooing softly to her to calm her. Once he had satisfied himself that the struggling creature was uninjured, he gently returned her to her nest. Then, too flustered to grab a shirt, Jaskier bounced back out into the living room.

His guest greeted his return with a slightly stricken look, though it was hidden quickly behind a look of guarded amusement. He eyed Jaskier up and down, taking in the thatch of chest hair, the bare feet, the blue trousers. “Cat ok?” He asked, his voice a deep, pleasantly gravelly baritone. 

“She’s fine,” Jaskier shuffled awkwardly, then stuck his hand out. “Thank you so much for being there to catch her. Um. Gosh, I wish I’d met you under better circumstances, you’re really um… I mean.” He stopped, swallowed, catching his breath and reeling himself back in. “My name is Jaskier, it’s nice to meet you.”

The man eyed his hand for a moment that was slightly longer than Jaskier was actually comfortable with, before grasping it firmly. “Geralt,” he introduced himself. “Geralt z Rivii.” 

His hand was warm and held a truly surprising amount of strength; Jaskier very rarely felt someone deliberately being gentle with him, but he could tell the big man could crush his fingers like bird bones if he wanted to. It made Jaskier’s bones feel like they were melting like butter, to feel that strength. “Wow…” he said, eyes wide, then mentally kicked himself. “I mean, uh. Nice to meet you,” he burbled, before trailing off awkwardly into silence, kicking himself the entire time for sounding like an idiot. 

The corners of Geralt’s eyes crinkled as he squeezed Jaskier’s hand delicately. “Nice to meet you too.” Turning, he scanned the apartment, his expression unreadable. “Why did you name your cat Pipkin? That’s… an unusual choice.” 

“Uh… Well, funny story…” Jaskier blushed. Normally, he loved telling this story, but somehow it seems silly and small under that bright gaze. “It’s sort of a play on words. People call their cats ‘pussy,’ so I named her… uh… another word for pussy. An old word. Pipkin.” Damn. He hadn’t even managed to make it funny this time. 

“That joke’s more than five hundred years out of date,” Geralt noted, tipping his head to the side and fixing him with a warm, amused look. 

“How- How do you know that?” Jaskier sputtered, astonished. The slang was from the 17th century, no one outside certain academic circles had any business knowing that. “Are you… do you do the Faire?”

Shifting the pack on his back, which concealed two swords- one silver, and one steel, Geralt snorted. “I really don’t.” 


End file.
